Would You Like a Side of Crow With That Humble Pie?
by Neocolai
Summary: Tag to episode "Mystery Spot." Dean finds a new way to get himself killed, and Sam adds another rule to the growing list of "What Dean is not allowed to do on Tuesdays."


_Summary: Tag to episode "Mystery Spot." Dean discovers a new way to get himself killed, and Sam adds another rule to the growing list of "What Dean is not allowed to do on Tuesdays." Outsiders POV_

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**I own nothing in Supernatural, which Sam and Dean will always be grateful for, as otherwise I would drive them to suicide with overkill humor and angst.**

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_Outsider's POV_

_.._

Anyone who had me for a waitress would tell you, "Don't get on Samantha's bad side on a Monday."

Anyone who worked alongside me for any length of time would tell you that every day is Monday where I'm concerned.

I could already tell that Tuesday was going to be another of those everything-blows-up-in-my-face kinds of days.

Among their many assets, small towns are good for two things: gossip, and easy transportation. When the gas tank on my car was flooded from last night's rain I should have hitched a ride to work with someone else. I was feeling stubborn and put off, though, and I thought I could fix the problem myself. My pride only resulted in me racing for a bus last minute with oil smeared all over my hands and my clean pressed uniform looking like I had purchased it from Goodwill.

Next, as my disreputable luck would have it, while I was fumbling through my purse for change I chanced to look down just in time to see my bus money float happily into the gutter. Stupid cash was probably thrilled to get away from me; already I was royally... ticked off. (_Remember, Samantha, you had a pious mother.) _Heaven forbid I use the _other _word. I had already been pre-warned by Mother that she would return from the grave, smack my hand with a rolling pin, and torment my descendants into insanity if she ever heard me swear.

Anyways, it was too late to run back home for money and wait for the next bus, so it was with a disgruntled and prepared-to-shoot-without-question attitude that I splashed my way into the diner. It just _had_ to be raining cats and dogs today, and I just _had_ to have broken my umbrella the night before. I swear Mondays are the curse of my life, and anyone in their right mind would agree that e_very_ day was Monday for me. Darn it all to the third level of ... heck. (_Remember, you had a pious mother, Samantha_.)

I received a few pitying glances from my fellow employees as I slammed the door to the kitchen behind me. Heaven be thanked, Theresa had a fresh uniform ready and waiting for me. I swear they were beginning to predict my Tuesdays. Fifteen minutes and a half attempt at restyling my hair later, and I was ready to go.

None too soon, for that matter, as Pam, one of our head waitresses, rounded the corner with a scowl fit to terrorize a pitbull. She tossed an order to the chef, muttering under her breath something about "Durned little brat, how'd he know about that?"

"What's going on?" I wispered to Mike as I started piling empty trays in the dishwasher.

"Kid at table three managed to get under Pam's skin somehow," he hissed back, glancing back to make sure the injured party wasn't around to overhear the conversation. "Guess it's just one of those days."

Great. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Snobby, undertipping, egoistic rat finks were fairly common in our small restaurant, and they were a pain to deal with. No one wanted to be the unfortunate waiter or waitress serving at _that_ table.

Tragically, Pam had the same idea we were all considering, and she determined the best course of action was passing the curse onto someone else.

"Samantha!" she barked, handing me a spoon and several napkins. "Table three. He's already got his order; says he needs a spoon. Well, pick up your feet, girl, we haven't got all day!"

I stood there gaping for a good ten seconds as a tray with the next customer's order was shoved into my hands. Perfect. So Pam was royally ticked off and I had to deal with the grumpy customers. Well he could shove that spoon where the moon don't shine for all I cared. (_Remember your mother, Samantha.)_

"Samantha!"

"All right, I'm going," I grumbled, hefting the tray to one hand and stuffing the napkins and spoon into my apron pocket.

Cheerfulness was unfortunately considered a given in this restaurant, although the false smile I forced probably looked more like I was squeezing a lemon between my teeth. Stupid customers. Stupid annoyed waitresses who made me take the hardest tables. Darn it all to heck, I hated Tuesdays.

I must say I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at the table, however. I don't know who the dark haired stranger was, but he certainly made my day a little brighter. I've always had a thing for guys with long hair - Prince Caspian being one of many among my childhood fantasies - and this one certainly fit the dark and dreamy quota. He might have been perfect if those gorgeous green eyes hadn't looked dead set on murdering the world, but given the state of the dude sitting in front of him I think I could understand his attitude.

_Arthur._ That was the first thought that popped to my mind when my gaze settled on the smartalec residing at the same table. A hopeless medieval freak as always, I _would _compare the short haired guy to a Camelot tv show. With that cheeky grin plastered on his face, though, Spiky-hair certainly looked the part of a prat. No wonder Dark and Handsome was feeling a bit angsty.

Spiky-hair glanced up as I aproached, and his eyebrows raised in what would have been an enticing invitation if I hadn't been so dead set on hating him for ticking off Pam and sic'ing me with the hard job.

"Hey, Sammy, is this part of the whole Tuesday shabang?" he shot to Dreamy Eyes sitting in front of him, offering me an alluring smile.

"No... this is new," his friend answered with a frown.

_Sammy. Sam. Short for Samuel, perhaps?_ A fitting name for the adorable homeless puppy trying to take on the whole world. I stiffened a giggle at my comparison, giving him an approving glance. Poor boy did seem to fit the steriotype of a motherless orphan, and my heart always went out to those kinds of young men.

_Pull it together, Samantha, he's not a lost pet you can offer a home too._ Still, he _was _cute. And his name was ironically matched with mine. _Hmm, Sammy and Samantha... _Okay, maybe that was a little _too_ close, even for me, but a girl can dream.

"Hi, my name is Dean," the prat waggled his eyebrows as I placed the spoon and napkins next to his plate.

Curse the sonofa- to the fourth dimension. Any other time he might have been drop dead sensational - in the white knight slaying the dragon kind of way - but I could feel his eyes raking over me, sizing me up and taking apart my uniform in seconds. I hated it when guys like him did this. It made me feel like I was being critiqued, compared to, surmized to a T, and then either accepted as 'good enough' or passed by like a freak of nature. So maybe I was underdeveloped in all the right places, my hair was having a bad day, and allergies smote me with the occasional burst of acne. What made it his business to determine what a woman should look like? Didn't a girl have a right to serve a table without being undressed like some cheap barbie doll?

I really shouldn't have reacted to his flirting, but I was feeling about ready to murder by this time. Dean's attitude was like the icing on the cake of misfortune, and I'd had it up to here with the prat. No wonder Pam had dumped the job on me! This ungrateful jerk was enough to put anyone on homicide watch!

Dean seemed to be disappointed when I turned without giving him my name. I mouthed a silent apology to the darling boy sitting across from him, who shot a bewildered look at his brother - at least so I assumed, as they both had the same dazzling green eyes - before nodding courteously in response. Well, so he was a gentleman to boot. Arthur's cousin could learn a trick or two from him.

I served the other tables without incident, managing not to glower in the direction of he-who-shall-not-be-tolerated. It was too bad he was handsome in the rugged type of way. Aragorn was impossible to resist, and that made ignoring this dude all the harder for me. Just seeing Sammy's stricken face was enough to put out the fire in my heart, however, and add a little extra flame to my anger every time I glanced in Dean's direction. Insolent brat; he had no right to pick on poor brother just because he was feeling under the weather.

"Did I ever order the pie here?" I chanced to overhear Dean question his brother as I passed by to clear off the table behind them.

"No, just the special, coffee, and side of bacon," Sammy grumbled, sounding so melancholic it seemed as though his entire world was coming to an end.

"Well, might as well change the monotonous pattern while I'm at it," Dean said with a tease in his voice, scanning the desert menu kept at the side of the table. "Think I'll try the cherry pie this time, haven't - "

"No."

The abrupt rebuffal caught me by surprise. (_No, I was __**not **__evesdropping on their conversation. I was just surprised that such a kind looking, tragedy stricken young man could actually bark out orders like a commander, that's all.)_

"With the way my Tuesdays have been going, you'll choke on one of the pits," Sam added.

Well, so I wasn't the only one who had a week's worth of Mondays 24/7, 365. I felt a new burst of admiration for this tormented boy forced to endure such an uppity snitch of an older brother.

"Aw, come on, Sammy. Don't you think you're taking this a little too far?"

Silence supplied the answer of a glower in my opinion. Hopefully they wouldn't notice the pathetically slow job I was doing clearing the table behind them. I wanted to see how this conversation played out.

"All right, all right," Dean gave in. "I'll order something else. Hey, sweetheart?"

I turned around as he adressed me, forcing myself to wipe the utter disgust from my face as I pulled out a notepad.

"Can I get a slice of blueberry pie with whipped cream? Oh, and a coffee refill while you're at it." He winked at me, and my heart stopped within my chest.

Confound it all! What right did he have to play around with girls like that? Every instinct of mine wanted to drown in that brilliant smile he flashed my way, but thanks be to heaven I inherited my father's temper, which brought any fantasies to a halt might quick. I had never imagined it so hard to rein in my emotions, though. Not being in control of myself in front of such a stuck up pervert was a new experience for me, and one I did not wish to embrace. **Ever**.

Coldly I jotted down the order, gathering the tray from the table I was cleaning and offering Sam a sympathetic smile as I headed back to the kitchen. I just knew the prat's eyes were on me the whole way.

With simmering anger boiling to the surface I fetched Dean's pie, slopping on a dallop of whipped cream and practically melting it under my glare. Mike and Theresa exchanged a glance and carefully stayed out of my way. Anyone could tell the eruption was set to go off any minute.

On my way out I grabbed a slice of chocolate cake and slid it on my tray, calling over my shoulder, "Just take it off my tab."

The poor orphan boy needed some fortitude for today.

I didn't take much notice of the perplexed glances passed among the staff as they saw me place the chocolate cake gracefully in front of Sammy. Dean's was plonked down without further ado, my eyes only for my dark haired prince and the look of genuine gratefulness that reflected in his thanks as I assured him his desert was on the house.

Dean shot Sammy a surprised glance as my gaze lingered, muttering under his breath, "Well, guess where it comes to girls there's hope for you after all, Sam."

Okay, that was the last straw. He could pester me all he wanted, but he would not make my Sammy prey to this silent duel. (_Hold the phone - __**my **__Sammy? Since when did my brain evolve into fairy tale princess again?)_

No matter. Mister The-female-population-kisses-the-ground-under-my-feet had been asking for this for a long time. Blueberry pie, he wanted? How about a slice of humble pie to go with it? And a side dish of crow?

Grabbing Dean's plate I balanced it in one hand, flinging it with delicious, sadistic pleasure at his snobby, handsome face. I cannot begin to describe the delight of watching cascades of whipped topping and blueberry splat against his shocked features. Fathomless hazel eyes widened and I realized too late I might have put too much force behind my blow.

There was a flailing of arms, a suction of gravity and suddenly Dean was freefalling, hitting the floor with a sickening _thud_. He didn't get up.

Sammy's breath caught and he lurched to his feet, instantly at his brother's side. "Dean?"

Oh, shittaki mushrooms... tell me I hadn't broken his neck.

Forget the dream prince. I was so going to be fired.

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Heat of the Moment blared in Sam's ears as he shot up in bed, Dean's exuberant call of "Rise and Shine, Sammy!" immediately causing him to groan and flop back onto the pillows.

_New rule for Dean's guide to surviving Tuesday: NO flirting with any cute waitresses!_


End file.
